


Matters of the Heart

by amerande



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Illness, The Blacklist Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6500005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amerande/pseuds/amerande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He can’t even watch Lizzie as she leaves, hand-in-hand with Tom." A short one-shot that picks up where Mr. Solomon (season 3 episode 17) leaves off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matters of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up at the end of the action in Season 3, Episode 17, Mr. Solomon. Elizabeth Keen escapes the church with Tom, and Reddington stays behind to cover her retreat.

He can’t even watch Lizzie as she leaves, hand-in-hand with Tom. She’s certainly safer - for now - with Tom than here in the church, and Red knows full well that she would never have left without her ex-husband and husband-to-be.

So he doesn’t waste time watching her. He focuses his attention and fire on the back of the church, shoots, ignores the fist clenching around his heart, the screaming in his head. _This is on you._ Louder than gunshots.

Time passes. The shots might be microseconds or hours apart, but finally he hears the police outside, hears Donald shouting. One, two, three more gunshots.

Then silence, or what passes for it. There’s a ringing in his ears that he know will pass, but he shakes his head anyway.

Red slumps down onto the pew, gun clattering from his hand.

 _She’s safe_ . She must be. He finds it inconceivable that some harm could have befallen her without his knowing, _feeling_.

He’d be happy to stay here, let the knowledge that she is safe, _must_ be safe, blanket him, but Dembe is trying to get his attention and so he stands, wincing and rubbing at his chest. Breathing feels alien. Small wonder, with the rubble and the smoke and the kick of the gun - he tries to take a deep breath, to let it go -  and the _fear_.

“It’s time to leave, Raymond. Agent Ressler is occupying the police for now, but we must not be here.”

Red nods.

“The apartment, Dembe. Send whoever’s left. They’ll have run there.”

“Of course.” Dembe calls Baz over and conveys the order. Red’s grateful - talking seems like so much effort. He draws in another breath, but it stops short like the ones before it.

Clear air, that’s what he needs.

And scotch.

 

* * *

 

There’s a half-drunk scotch in his hand and Dembe is relaying some information from Donald about the would-be kidnappers when the world stops. Red doesn’t so much sit as fall to the couch, hand pressed to his chest.

He tries to speak, but there’s an ache in his jaw and he can’t quite seem to take a deep enough breath to form any words. Instead he’s left gaping at Dembe, mouth working pointlessly.

The ache spreads.

_Oh, hell._

Dembe - blessed, cunning Dembe - doesn’t waste a moment. Doesn’t ask, doesn’t fret.

“Stay there, Raymond. Don’t try to talk.” He’s already got the cellphone to his ear as he runs from the room, and he’s talking as he returns with a pill bottle.

“Meet us at the Newton safe site,” he says as he puts a pill to Red’s lips, then holds up a glass of water to help Red swallow it down. “He’s having a heart attack.”

Red had come to much the same conclusion himself.

He’s dimly aware that Dembe is very close to outright carrying him to the car. The band around his heart seems to have loosened, which he tries to tell Dembe, but the other man shushes him, buckles him into the backseat, and drives them toward the rendezvous with the emergency team.

“Don’t sleep just yet, Raymond,” Dembe says from the front seat, and Red has just enough energy to note that he ought to be indignant at the tone with which the instruction is given.

 

* * *

 

They’ve given him oxygen and nitroglycerin, but the world is reduced to noises he can’t decipher and lights he can’t quite bring into focus. Dembe keeps telling him to think about his breathing, not talking, not doing anything else at all, but whenever Red closes his eyes and tries to sleep, someone else appears to tell him _no, not now_ , _stay awake a little longer for us_. He knows, on a certain level, that he ought to do as instructed, but he’s so tired. They made it to the emergency site; he’s been given treatment. Surely a little rest would be good. He allows his eyes to close again.

“ _You_ tell him, he listens to you.”

“Red, I really need you to open your eyes for me, okay?”

_Lizzie?_

She’s never spoken to him this way - it’s the voice she uses with victims, witnesses who need special handling. Not _him_.

He does as she asks; of _course_ he does. She’s near the bed, and though he can’t quite bring her into focus, he notes that her headband is gone but she’s still in the wedding dress. _So lovely_.

“Lizzie…” speaking feels like a tremendous effort, but it’s important. “Lizzie, you’re here.” That wasn’t quite right, so he tries again. “I just...need to rest, to sleep.”

“Not yet, Red, you can’t sleep yet.” Her voice is different again, and he wishes he could see her properly. Her voice is _thick_ , and -

tears, there’s light reflecting off her cheeks, too-bright, tear tracks. _You should not be crying, Lizzie._

He lifts one hand, reaches feebly out to her as if to brush the tears away, but he can’t quite reach. Instead, she grabs hold of his outstretched hand, rests both their hands on his bed, and leans nearer to him.

“Did Sam ever tell you about the first time he took me boating? It was the summer before fifth grade, we took a road trip and wound up at Lake Superior…”

Her words wash over him, painting pictures more clear than the room around him, and her hand holds his tight. The doctors he keeps on retainer come in and out of the room and poke him in various ways and make notes and confer with each other, but all he can hear is his Lizzie, comforting him the only way she knows how right now. A story of her own, in exchange for all the ones he’s given her.

She doesn’t often volunteer this sort of information, personal and close. He holds every word, turns it over, locks it away in his heart, commits the story and the cadence of her words to memory so he’ll always have this moment.

The world starts to come into focus again shortly after her story winds down, and he sees her face - so precious, even in her concern and sorrow. Her tears have dried, but tell-tale signs linger around her face. He wonders if she was crying even before Dembe (surely it must have been Dembe) called her, crying for her lost wedding, crying at the memory of the rifles trained on her heart, crying for the woman whose blood had covered Aram’s hands.

 _You should not be crying, Lizzie. These should never have been your burdens to bear_ . It seems shatteringly important that he tell her this, but he’s not sure how to begin - not even sure if she’d listen if he were to tell her. It was only earlier that day, after all, that she told him to leave. So he settles for looking at her, willing her to understand, hoping that once he’s up on his feet again and they’ve dealt with Solomon and Tom and whatever threats stand between _Lizzie_ and _peace_ , he’ll have a chance to help her see.

“Mr. Reddington, there’s good news.” The doctor stands opposite Lizzie, a smile on his face. “You’re out of the woods. We can talk later about your recovery process, but for now we’ve given you something to help you rest.”

“Thanks for waiting, Red. You can sleep now,” Lizzie says, again in that softer voice. She gives him the sweetest smile, and he locks the memory of it away with her story, with the pressure of her hand on his.

“Will you…” He swallows. “Lizzie, will you be here-”

She gives his hand a squeeze, leans forward a little and raises his hand to her cheek. His thumb twitches, stroking her soft skin, and his eyes start to close.

“I’ll be here when you wake up. I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
